


A Bid from Midnight

by Zercalo



Series: all the rest stops along the road [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Pre-Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 22:10:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11838015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zercalo/pseuds/Zercalo
Summary: Derek’s been holed up in the middle of nowhere for a few months now, so Stiles makes a detour to check up on him. Because Scott is worried.(Scott is not that worried.)





	A Bid from Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> I've only watched one episode of Midnight, Texas before I wrote this. The story is set at some point in time before Manfred shows up. You don't really have to know anything about Midnight, Texas to read this story because it's mostly about Derek and Stiles getting some dinner.

  
  


The sun is low on the horizon, retreating, but still red and huge and hot. Stiles steps off the stuffy bus into the oven that’s apparently West Texas. The wind belts at his left cheek, dry enough to crack his skin if he keeps standing there, trying to adjust to the view. 

 

No one else gets off or on the bus. The driver waits impatiently for Stiles to take a step out, then closes the door and leaves him standing there. 

 

There, in the middle of the freaking desert. 

 

He starts walking toward the cluster of houses down the road, wondering idly if it’s on purpose that the bus station is so far out of town. A test of some sort. The sand grates against the cracked asphalt under his shoes. It’d have helped cross the distance if there was at least a vending machine next to the crooked, rusty sign and the empty stand. 

 

The town itself is not that bad. Devy, Texas. Once Stiles gets to the convenience store, gets a large bottle of water and the ugliest pair of sunglasses he’s worn since he was nine and Heather swore he looked cute in her heart-shaped polka dot pink frames, he’s feeling generous enough to admit that. He asks the bored-looking guy about the places where you can stay in town. Between the accent and the whooshing of the ancient desk fan, he’s got to make a bit of an effort to follow - there are two places, a motel and an inn. 

 

Back on the street, refreshed and remembering he’s actually excited about being here, Stiles looks around. It helps that it’s almost dusk, sun too low to burn his skin, all the way behind the buildings. The town is not that small, but people do give him curious looks - it must be his delicate untanned skin. Or it could  be that he’s wearing the sunglasses, but that’s because he’s afraid they’ll break into pieces if he tries to put them in his overstuffed bag or the ratty backpack. He’ll need them tomorrow. 

 

The inn is quite nice, all wood and clean, green garden so Stiles doesn’t bother to go inside. He asks for directions and the squinty old man tells him that the motel is on the other side of the town. It takes maybe twenty minutes and it’s dark when he gets there. 

 

It’s a spooky place, this motel, old and beaten down by the age and the sun. Stiles trips over a patch of dry grass in the middle of the parking lot, too busy looking at the two lit windows in the row of rooms to watch his step. One obviously occupied room is the very first one next to the office - as if, Stiles thinks in that way Beacon Hills has thought him to think, the person renting it is maybe afraid to be all alone.

 

The other lit window is on the completely other end of the line. The light is weak and blueish - it’s coming from the TV, probably. There is an unfamiliar car parked just left from the door of that room. Stiles has to take off his glasses so he could take a look through the side window. 

 

It’s clean, well kept… and it’s gotten too dark for him to see anything useful in there.

 

It’s not a surprise in the sense that there’s no way Stiles would have ever expected it when the light comes on and the door to the room opens, but it is loud and sudden and he jumps a feet up in the air.

 

“What are you…” Derek says faintly. He doesn’t look surprised, but that’s just because he seems to be busy looking like he’s smelled something rancid. 

 

Stiles is not offended. He does smell rancid. 

 

Derek recovers, steps forward so the light is not directly behind him, draws his eyebrows into a frown, says, “What are you doing here, Stiles?” and  _ oh _ . He’s cleanly shaved and it’s been forever since Stiles has seen Derek’s chin.

 

He’s also in his underwear and a shirt he’s pulled quickly on - you can tell because one side is still high above his hip and his hair is a dead giveaway. Stiles gets a really weird thought about Derek’s legs that manages, better than his best conscious attempts, to snap him out of it. 

 

“Um, I was in the neighborhood?”

 

Derek loses his ready-to-somersault pose to frown at him with even more intensity.

 

Stiles rolls his eyes, steps closer, “Well, I  _ was _ in the neighborhood - once I took a really long fucking detour, got off the bus and walked to the other side of town. How about you? What are you doing here?”

 

“Did Scott send you?”

 

Scott didn’t exactly send him - he mentioned that Derek has holed up in some tiny town in Texas and Stiles volunteered to check up on him. And then promptly ignored Scott’s attempts to tell him that was not what he meant at all.

 

“Sort of,” and then, because this lying to a werewolf business is pain in the ass, he admits, “Well, not really. He does want to know if he should worry about you permanently taking residence in a filthy motel in Texas, though.”

 

“Feel free to tell him not to worry. Was that all?”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes again, but affectionately, because  _ sass _ . “Well, now that I’m already here, I might as well use up all your hot water. Actually, cold water. All the water.” 

 

He steps forward and Derek moves to let him through inside. There’s that weird neck movement he makes whenever he’s sniffing something out. He says, “Feel free to also use my soap. All the soap.”

 

Stiles makes the point of keeping his laugh sarcastic but he’s entertained, for real. He’s missed Derek, probably, on some level. 

 

The rooms’s equipped with a fan and the window is wide open, the old yellow curtain moving with the breeze. It smells faintly of artificial lemon, like from a detergent. There are two beds in the tiny room, but only one is in use. Folded and unfolded clothes, files, pictures and newspapers are spilling over the other one onto the little night table and the floor in the middle. 

 

“It’s like you’ve been expecting guests,” Stiles says, eases the bag off of his stiff shoulder. The thing is heavier than you’d think. There’s room on the tiny table for his phone and the stupid glasses next to Derek’s laptop.

 

...Derek owns a laptop. That’s a weird thought. Much weirder than, say,  _ Derek has claws _ , or even  _ Derek is trying on Stiles’ stupid sunglasses and smiling to himself. _

 

Stiles knows this from personal experience - being away from Beacon Hills is therapeutic. He still can’t quite look away.

 

Derek is not pulling them off either, but to be fair to him, the frames are thick and squared and not meant for humans at all probably. Derek is still wearing them when he grabs some clothes off the cluttered bed and puts them over Stiles’ shoulder. 

 

“I’ve got my clothes with me.”

 

“There’s nothing clean in that bag. Don’t open it,” Derek warns, though he doesn’t look bothered. Stiles knows what a werewolf looks like when a smell doesn’t agree with him, and that look involves sideburns. 

 

Derek is right, though, he hasn’t done his laundry before he’s headed home - there was no point. 

 

The bathroom is cleaner than any motel bathroom has a right to be and seems to be the source of that lemony smell. It’s vaguely refreshing, though Derek is probably not enjoying it.  Stiles takes his time, even though the pressure is terrible and the shower tries to burn his skin off every two minutes or so and the water smells like rotten eggs. 

 

Derek’s jeans and the sleeveless shirt, Stiles knows, are technically too big on him, especially right now, but there's always been something about fitting clothes that’s made him feel exposed, like he’s naked. He’s clean and refreshed for the first time since he got on that bus this morning so he leaves the bathroom in a better mood.

 

Derek’s cleared out the other bed, mostly, and is sitting on it with one leg bent over, dressed now. His back is practically to Stiles, which probably says a whole lot about how far he’s come since leaving Beacon Hills for good, but he’s also still in a sleeveless shirt and one look at his arms is enough to put any and all character progress analysis on hold. 

 

It’s time for a distraction.

 

“How’s Cora doing?” Stiles wants to know because he hasn’t seen Cora in years except on the picture Derek’s carrying in his wallet. Even that’s been cheating - Derek was hurt at the time and Stiles was digging for his keys when the wallet fell out and opened, but Cora was grinning on it, grinning like she’s so much better off far away from Beacon Hills and Stiles remembers envying her so much it made him sick.

 

Derek smiles, kind of, trying to sort through some newspaper clippings and print-outs, “She’s good. She gets fired from every job she gets, but she keeps trying.”

 

“God, tell me she’s a waitress. Tell me she has to smile and say  _ what can I get you?  _ Tell me someone’s tried to grab her ass.”

 

A pained shadow comes over Derek’s face, something Stiles decides to call  _ futile sibling frustration  _ then and there, before he snorts, “If someone has, I haven't heard about it.”

 

“Because Cora is perfectly capable of burying her own dead bodies? Werewolf muscles and all.” A person’s survival instincts would have to be completely off to try something like that on Cora - there’s something wild in her eyes, something Derek’s never had and Peter can only wish for on top of his own personal brand of insanity. That’s the main reason Stiles has never even bothered to ask where she came from, where she’d been all those years. It was nowhere good. Maybe Derek’s having similar thoughts because his hands are still on his papers, his back stiff, so Stiles laughs, “Cheer up, I’m sure she’ll let you help if you tell her it can be your birthday present.”

 

“She hasn’t worked as a waitress yet. Her first job was for this small company that makes organic jams, they took her on a taster, but she kept telling everyone they used chemicals in their products.”

 

“That is seriously the best use for a werewolf I’ve heard of,” Stiles answers, so very amused. He catches one of those dramatic Hale eyerolls before Derek stops in the middle to frown at him. “What?”

 

Nothing comes out of Derek’s half-opened mouth, he just frowns and gives Stiles a painfully worried and detailed once over. 

 

He should have done his freaking laundry before leaving the dorm, damn it and damn Derek’s stupid clothes. So he’s lost some weight - it’s been a harsh semester.  He’s been busy and he had to buy a new laptop when his old one died on him in the middle of the midterms, so the money has been tight. 

 

Stiles tugs on Derek’s stupid shirt self-consciously and distracts himself grabbing some papers from Derek’s pile. “So this is what you’ve been up to?”

 

They are local stories about ghosts, weird accidents, people claiming they saw an Angel of God, things like that. 

 

Derek goes along with it, hides his ridiculous worry. “Yeah. Come on, we’re going out.”

 

“Out where?”

 

Derek throws him a balled up pair of clean black socks, but doesn’t bother to change his clothes. “Out for dinner.”

 

“You don’t have to feed me, Derek, Jesus. I’m going home, I’ll be able to cook.” As soon as he gets dad to buying actual groceries, anyway. 

 

“I’ll show you what I’m here for,” Derek throws in, as if banking on Stiles’ curiosity to override the defensiveness. But the thing is, Stiles has only had a bland egg sandwich around noon and he’s been putting the socks on already - the left one has a tiny hole in it. Anyway. He’s hungry, so he’s going.

 

But he says, “Deal,” anyway, puts his shoes on and follows Derek out. 

 

The wind’s turned cooler, pleasant. The moon’s not out yet but when it comes it’s going to be waxing - there’s nothing like being from Beacon Hills to make one extremely aware of the moon phases.

 

Derek drives them out of town. His car is comfortable, windows rolled down, the music a low hum barely audible over the engine and the whipping air, and Stiles means to ask him things - about why down here, about where they’re going - but for once, he doesn’t want to break the silence. There’s an oddity he doesn’t care to examine in the fact that he doesn’t absolutely have to know where they’re headed.

 

The next town over startles him from his almost-nap because, “Oh my God, is this a ghost town?”

  
“No, people live here. It’s called Midnight.” 

 

It doesn’t feel like it, it feels dark and odd and - forgotten. The headlights of Derek’s car are just enough to show the shape of the town, the low buildings and boarded up shops, the dusty road. It’s dark everywhere - no streetlights, no lit windows. The first sign of life is the church, one lonely point of light, and underneath it, a dark figure in a black minister coat. The man watches them as they drive by the church, face hidden but head following. 

 

“Well that’s not creepy at all.”

 

“He’s making a point,” Derek says, with something like a smile, something like amusement in his voice. 

 

“What’s the point?”

 

“It’s his town. I’m here because he’s allowing it.” Derek turns to Stiles with a huge shiteating grin. “And he’s running out of patience with me.”

 

“Werewolf?”

 

“Something,” Derek absently says, parking next to a few other cars and truck in front of the only thing that seems really alive in town. “Were-something. A shifter of some sort.”

 

The sign  _ Home Cookin’ _ sinks into darkness when Derek turns off the engine - God forbid someone can see from the main road that there’s something around here. 

 

“At least you’re making friends,” Stiles says before getting out of the car. 

 

Derek actually laughs, a little, “Left and right. Come on, it’s this way.”

 

It’s a dive, but Stiles gets positively dizzy with the smell of food. His stomach growls as he passes two men digging into some sort of rich stew and Stiles completely agrees, he should just steal a plate instead of waiting. Were-things are nothing, there’s witchcraft in this town. Culinary whichcraft. 

 

Derek gives him a look so worried, Stiles is pretty sure he must have swayed on his feet, drooling and staring at someone else’s plate. He quickly takes a seat across from Derek on the far side of the bar - his back to the door, that’s what you get when you let Derek pick the chair first, apparently. 

 

The waitress comes to their table very quickly, and Stiles thinks maybe she’s a were-something too. 

 

“Hey Derek,” she says, in that way girls often do when Derek’s around - a bit flustered and a bit hopeful. Is her heart speeding up right now? Or maybe that doesn’t happen to pretty girls. “The usual?”

 

Derek smiles a crooked but honest smile at her, “Sure.”

 

She turns to Stiles. The small plate on her uniform says “Creek” which is so damn fitting - every small desert town could use a creek. “Um, what’s good?”

 

She raises her eyebrows, stresses with teasing scorn, “ _ Everything _ .”

 

“Anything, then. Something that comes on a really big plate and is expensive, since Derek is paying.”

 

Her face falls a little, “And, uh, to drink?”

 

“Just water.” He needs to sleep, if that’s even possible this far out of his comfort zone. It might be, with just Derek there. But no sugar if Stiles means that to happen, and no alcohol, even though he’s pretty sure they wouldn’t ask for an ID.

 

When she’s gone, Stiles wants to tease Derek - this girl seems completely normal, there are no red alarms going off in his head which might not be a guarantee but it’s definitely a good sign - and she’s totally jealous, thinking they’re on a date or something. But there’s something odd in the way Derek’s watching him, something resigned and bothered in the way he’s just waiting for it, so Stiles keeps his mouth shut. 

 

After a minute, Derek speaks up first. “How’s college?”

 

Eyes on the wall behind Derek - since that’s the only view possible from this chair, seriously, how is he even going to eat like this? - Stiles says, trying for cheerful and failing, “Almost made a friend, way back in September. He was assigned to my room. Then after a week I was finally tired enough to fall asleep. The way he was looking at me in the morning - you’d think he was the one who had to witness his own father being brutally murdered all night long in his sleep.”

 

Derek hums, softly, “Classes?”

 

“Nothing interesting yet. I’m doing okay. You?”

 

Derek leans back in his chair, looks away. Oh God, they are both so bad at this, pathetic. They need to find something to talk about and it can't be Stiles because Derek can smell bullshit and he probably doesn't really care anyway. 

 

Then it comes to him. “Tell me more about Cora’s jobs.”

 

The small upturn of his mouth doesn't look as happy on Derek as it should, but still, Stiles is getting the pattern here - you want him to smile at you, mention his sister. “Last summer, she worked in an amusement park in New Hampshire. Selling tickets, cleaning, helping the more experienced staff. Wearing the fur.”

 

“What?”

 

“One of her jobs was to put on the costume of the park’s mascot, Howie the Happy Hound, and entertain children.”

 

Stiles asks again, this time laughing, “What?”

 

Derek shakes his head, “All that fake fur… according to her, you could boil to death in the suit. It’s ancient, smelly, and it’s tried to cook many, many employees that came before her.  She only wore it once, though, for half an hour on so. Until she could escape to the bathroom.”

 

“Don’t tell me. They couldn’t find enough of that thing to fit in the Cookie Crisp box?”  Cora the Happy Hound doesn’t have a ring to it anyway.

 

“She tried to flush parts of it. She clogged the system so badly they had to close the park for two days.”

 

“She got fired, I assume?”

 

“Not before her coworkers threw her a party.”

 

It’s the best thing Stiles has heard in weeks, maybe longer. Cora is going to punch him in the face, but he’s still going to tease her mercilessly about that one. If he ever sees her again. 

 

Creek the waitress comes with their food, says, “Yours is on the house if you tell me how you did that. We’ve been trying for weeks.”

 

Stiles follows her nod to look at Derek, who is rapidly losing that relaxed set to his shoulders.

 

“Sorry, that’s hard-earned sacred knowledge. It would cost you a lifetime of dinners, at least.”

 

She doesn’t skip a beat, “Worth it. I just work here, though, so I’d have to run it by the owner first.”

 

“This smells divine, but as much as I’m tempted, I’m just passing through. Good to know someone’s keeping an eye on Derek around here, though.”

 

“We like him,” says Creek, sweeter now that she knows Stiles is not staying. “He’d fit right in.”

 

She leaves their food that still smells and looks amazing, but Stiles doesn’t feel like trying it and confirming that. He stabs with his fork into a moist, delicious looking piece of meat and watches as it falls apart under the assault. “So that’s what you’re doing here? You gonna live here?”

 

“No,” Derek says. 

 

“No, it makes sense,” Stiles ignores the denial, ignores the ugly, vile quality of his voice and pushes on. “All these boarded up, abandoned houses - you’d feel right at home. It would sure make Creek there all happy to serve you dinner every night. And if the company turns out to be too nice and nothing sadistic descends on your head, you can always get your rocks off walking across the desert berfooted.”

 

Derek holds the eyes contact, patient as unaffected through Stiles’ little rant. “No,” he repeats, slowly. “No, Stiles.”

 

_ Conditioned to electricity?  _ almost comes out of his mouth, and it takes effort to swallow it back down, to say instead, “What, then?” 

 

Derek takes a deliberate bite of his food and waits until Stiles gives in and starts eating as well. “The people here are not that bad and this place feels volatile. Like it’s about to blow up.” 

 

“And that’s your problem how?”

 

“The same way it’s apparently your problem what _ I _ do.”

 

You’d expect, with dinner conversation like this, that the food would taste like cardboard. It’s rich and creamy, full of flavor in all the ways that should be banned, and Stiles settles as he eats. Or maybe it’s because Derek’s snapping back at him? He hasn’t even been that hursh, considering.

 

“It’s not the same. You’ve only been here for what, two months?”

 

Derek breaks off a piece of warm bread, but he doesn’t put it in his mouth. “Someone told Laura about this place, after the fire. They told her it’d be safe for us to come here. She didn’t want to. But I remembered the name of the town and thought…”

 

Stiles leaves his fork to sink into his food, and wipes his hand off his - Derek’s - jeans. Derek doesn’t need to say it, it’s clear. Whatever else he’s been doing with his life in the past few years, he’s also been searching for a home.

 

“This is not it. This place, it feels like,” Like it’s about to blow up, Derek’s said, but that’s not exactly it. It feels like the preserve around Beacon Hill, charged and deadly. Maybe not quite dead, but definitely  _ wrong _ , like… “Like Peter.”

 

Derek puts the piece of bread in his mouth, unsurprised by the comparison. After a bit, he says, “I don’t want here to happen what happened to us. The people here are...”

 

The people here are what? Nice, like Creek? Territorial and dogged, like the church guy? Worth saving? Stiles really doesn’t think it’s their problem. 

 

But of course Derek’s going to try. He’s always going to try… and probably fail. 

 

Whatever, time for a new topic. “Speaking of Peter, what’s he up to?”

 

“I’ve no idea. Still in Beacon Hills, probably.”

 

“I’ll let you know if I run into him. Tempting as it may be to forget he exists, it’s safer to keep tabs. Which reminds me, I need Cora’s number.”

 

“Why?”

 

“So I can put her in my contact list as ‘Howie’? Also because you keep going through phones and that makes it hard to keep tabs on you.”

 

“What if I promise to send you my new number first thing every time I get a new phone?”

 

Stiles laughs, incredulous. “Oh my God, Derek, just give me Cora’s number! I won’t send her dick pics or what the hell ever you’re thinking!”

 

Pissed off and horrified doesn’t even come close to describing Derek’s reaction to that. His face is positively green, like that sentence on top of the rest of the evening is more than his stomach can take. 

 

Stiles rolls his eyes, “I said I won’t, I wouldn’t, don’t maul anyone.”

 

“What - why would you even…?   
  


“If it happened to me, it can happen to her. She might even like it, who knows. God knows I did. Stop bending the fork, Hulk.”

 

Derek startles, looks down. The fork in his hand is not even slightly out of shape so he glares at Stiles again. His face is losing that weird color, though. 

 

“I won’t even call her,” Stiles promises. “I won’t use it at all - except when I have a good reason to be worried about you and you’re not answering your phone. The number of which you will always give me first thing after you get a new one.”

 

Derek sighs, “Give me your phone.”

 

He keeps it for a while, and Stiles digs into the rest of his food wondering what he’s doing. There’s nothing interesting or important on it, that’s for sure. It’d be unsafe to keep it there. Later, while Derek is finishing his food, Stiles finds a bunch of new numbers in his phone - Cora’s, but also Peter’s, Braeden's and a whole bunch of unfamiliar names are there, too. Alpha Moore, Alpha Drywater, Oz, Charlie Parker, someone named Patience and wow, at least ten more.  It seems like every number Derek thinks he might need, he learns by heart and he’s decided to give every single one of them to Stiles.

 

When they’re ready to go, Derek draws his attention toward the semi-private side room that opens into the larger area with the bar. Stiles means to be discreet as he looks at the people sitting at the single long table there, but they are all looking straight back at him, unashamed in their interest. Derek nods at them before paying at the bar and a girl waves at him cheerfully. 

 

Unlike the people who are sitting at the tables around them and have stopped by because the food here is truly excellent, Stiles is willing to bet that these are the locals. The people Creek referred to as ‘we’. Midnighters. 

 

The evening is still young when Derek drives them back to the crappy motel in Devy. The moon’s out, sharp and thin but so clear on the dark sky. 

 

“I try not to leave my things out here longer than a few hours,” Derek says, apropos to nothing Stiles can figure out.

 

“Okay? I mean, good thinking, I don’t trust those people one bit…”

 

Derek rolls his eyes. “But since you’re here now, I’m going for a run. That okay?”

 

“You’re staying out all night?” That’s strangely upsetting, and it shows in Stiles’ voice. 

 

“No, not nearly that long. I don’t think you have anything to to worry about, otherwise I wouldn’t leave,” Derek says quickly. He watches Stiles carefully, as if rethinking his decision and Stiles isn’t sure how to explain that he’s not afraid. That’s not it. 

 

He just hasn’t seen Derek in a long time. 

 

“I’ll be fine,” he says clearly, lets Derek hear the truth of it in his heartbeat. “I’ll entertain myself.”

 

He nods toward the small TV that’s been making crackling noise in the corner. That’s good enough for Derek, who goes into the bathroom. Stiles is expecting him to change his clothes, but Derek instead changes his shape and comes back out a huge black wolf. 

 

He’s tall enough to open the door with his muzzle and he’s out before Stiles can coo at him and his gorgeous fur. The fact that Derek can do this, take the form of an actual wolf, is not something Stiles has forgotten. But he hasn’t seen it either, and the grace and power of it, the dignity and pride in the way he moves, it all leaves him just a little breathless.

 

The door stays ajar in Derek’s wake, and Stiles stays staring after him, heart pounding.

 

The evening stretches unusually long. There’s internet, but it’s completely crappy, and the TV is even worse. There’s absolutely nothing interesting or incriminating on Derek’s computer, not even the browser history, which explains why it’s not locked. Stiles calls his dad, who doesn’t quite get the reason for this detour but wants to hear about what Derek’s been up to anyway. He calls Scott, who is already home. He also calls Lydia but she’s still not done with the exams so that doesn’t even take a whole minute.

 

In the end, Stiles starts going through Derek’s collection of papers. It’s a right mess, no rhyme or reason behind the way they’re kept. The wallpaper on the wall is barely holding together, the grimy edges of the ancient yellowish paper are curling - Stiles is not a even little bit sorry about it when he gets out his rolls of extra strong washi tape out of his backpack. 

 

He puts away the blurry, unswept picture of the three cherubs playing around in a tacky golden-yellow frame and starts on the empty wall. It takes at least a few hours, probably longer. Once he’s done, all Derek’s newspapers research, everything he’s collected in the last two months is organized by the source, believability and seriousness of the (supposed) event - Stiles has put the religious drivel all the way at the bottom. It’s not a perfect system - it’s very subjective - but at least he has a system. 

 

Derek comes back later, long after midnight. He has to yip a few times in front of the door before Stiles gets it,  hurries to let him in before he loses his patience and ends up on the internet as the wolf hybrid that can use doorknobs. 

 

Derek’s beautiful dark fur is full of dust and debris, filthy. He walks straight to the bathroom and comes out not five minutes later, half dressed, and all but collapses on the bed closer to the door. Stiles quickly washes up, locks the door and takes the other bed in silence, careful not to wake him up.

 

He was right, sleep comes easy with Derek near by.

 

Stiles wakes up to the smell of food, coffee and Derek closely examining the wall.  No one should be able to look so fresh and clean living in the middle of the desert, but Derek’s pulling it off with his white shirt, freshly shaved. 

 

“This place has housekeeping,” Derek says, bending a little to see an article on the lower right part of the wall and obviously aware Stiles is a awake. 

 

“Right now?”

 

Derek frowns at him over his shoulder, “How am I supposed to explain this?”

 

Oh. That is definitely something Stiles has not considered. He shrugs, “Tell them you’re writing an article about Midnight? I don’t know. Or take it off, whatever.”

 

He doesn’t want Derek to take it off, it’s helpful and it wasn’t easy to put together, but he does understand the concern. 

 

Instead of making the decision on the spot and informing Stiles of it, Derek makes an eye contact. “Hungry?”

 

The table with two chairs in the corner is crowded and can barely hold all the food Derek’s bought. There’s enough of it to feed four teenaged werewolves and at least a half of the Beacon Hills K-9 unit. Stiles picks through the sandwiches, salads and rolls until he finds the source of that delicious smell that woke him up - two large pieces of warm apple pie and half a dozen of peanut butter cookies - which Derek promptly grabs from his hands.

 

“Eat something first.”

 

“I am trying,” Stiles complains, but all he gets for his effort is a handsfull of salad. The container holding it is thin plastic that bends out of shape if you don’t hold it just right, but the salad is well seasoned and full of delicious chicken pieces and okay, this is good too.

 

What food’s left, Derek tells him to put in his backpack for the road. “Even the pie?” Stiles wants to know because Derek hasn’t even touched his slice and it seems sacrilegious, somehow, because it's that good.

 

But Derek makes a face like the pie might go for his throat, says, “If you miss this bus, you’ll have to stay another night.”

 

Which wouldn’t be that bad, except he hasn’t seen his dad in far too long and the desert sun sounds like second degree burns just waiting to happen. So Stiles packs the few things he’s unpacked and Derek drives him across Devy - which is actually downright charming, compared to Midnight - to the bus station. 

 

They wait in Derek’s car, because the sun is already that bright and warm. Derek tells him a little about the people he put in Stiles’ phone and how he’s met them. When the bus is already in sight, he asks, “How’s your dad?”

 

“Better now, apparently,” Better now that Stiles is away from home, safe.  _ Safer _ . “But we’ll see.”

 

They don’t hug, or even shake hands, and as Stiles waves a little from his seat on the bus, that strikes him as weird. Why the hell not? Why wouldn't they hug goodbye? Derek is completely huggable. He should have hugged Derek - now God only knows when he’ll get a chance again.

 

The bus is already leaving so Stiles waves once again, and gets his phone out. He types in ‘don’t’ but doesn’t know how to finish - don’t settle here? Don’t risk your life for these strangers? Don’t die, don’t get hurt, don’t forget about us?

 

Derek’s car is a dark blur in the distance and an odd sense of urgency makes Stiles send the unfinished message. Derek will either get it or think it’s sent by mistake - there won’t be a response either way. 

 

Stiles pockets his phone, puts the stupid sunglasses on and sinks lower into his seat, resisting the urge to dig out that second piece of pie. 

 

He’ll need it later, it’s a long ride home.

**Author's Note:**

> Howie the Happy Hound is a reference to Stephen King's Joyland. 
> 
> Also, this series is my happy place of crossovers and I plan to write many of them - just like this, without digging too deep into characters that are not from Teen Wolf. They will all be the part of the same (mostly) canon-following universe.


End file.
